Govern the Clock
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: He's going to hell, if there's even a hell for people like him. Ples Tibenoch likes to think there is.


The whiskey pours.

Amber slides against slightly-polarized glass, cut and formed into the familiar shape; though he can barely hear it over the din of the clocks he knows that there's a faint tinkling sound as distilled grain tumbles over the clear cubes of ice, buoying them up in a sea of alcohol. The precisely-cut cubes are jolted by the steady, foreign stream of drink and they spin, bouncing off of one another until he tops off and sets the black-labeled bottle aside for later. An errant chunk knocks against the side of the glass as he lifts it in the familiar gesture, tired eyes squinting over half-moon glasses at the grandfather clock in the corner. The heavy pendulum swings, ticking away each second with a deceiving slowness; a dull thud is produced as brass hits polished wood, accompanied by the sound of shifting gears and tightening springs.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He looks at the yellowed light awash on the tabletop before him and the clocks remain, prim black faces facing one another as their staccato gossip fills the empty hallways of his home. He knows that another one of his times is coming on. Simply making the trip to the liquor store was a risk he normally wouldn't have taken, but he needed his crutch if he wanted to last into the daytime and he enjoyed the feeling, misguided as it was, of having a choice in the matter – even if it was picking the agent of the night's destruction. His fingerprints will linger on the smooth, unyielding hands of Fate, Time, whatever force keeps the odometer going; faint stress marks on the gears marking his attempts at reigning in the forces that wish nothing but to take his scheduled little life and grind it to dust. He tried to keep the hands from pushing forward and failed. It makes all the difference.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He's going to hell, if there's even a hell for people like him.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

Ples Tibenoch likes to think there is.

As he tips the glass back, the pendulum swings back and forth and brass continues to thud against rich brown wood in steady four-four rhythm. The motion is mirrored by the bobbing of his Adam's apple – the bump of larynx a testament to original sin, he remembers from Sunday school. It is the lodged chunk of fruit that every human male must carry as penance for the transgression of the first man; a reminder of what sent humanity out of the garden and down the long, winding road to triple-distilled alcohol and analog clocks. The bite of apple that is free of time's decay.

Briefly, he wonders if there are clocks in heaven, or brandy.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He slides from shadow into the light and back again, liquid like the drink he's downed. Waves of depravity and innocence slosh inside him, numbing and prickling, meshing together in odd ways like the teeth of gears and pushing forward steadily like the seconds that keep ticking by. Time clutters his thoughts– it gums up the gears and piles itself on top of the grime of everyday life that insists in adhering to his brain, black like tar and just as hard to scrape away. It builds up like compost behind his eyes.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

If time is like a river, then he is drowning in it.

The big grandfather clock chimes the hour and several other clocks titter, their thin black arms pointing upwards to the heavens as the witching hour approaches. The taste of apples is thick in his mouth as he stares at the clock, begs the full moon of its face for meaning. Behind the bloodless mathematics lurks the truth of the matter, as simple and measurable as the numbers he adds up for a living. An entire life, simplified to numbers. Equations that must be balanced, apples and oranges, good and bad, tick and tock.

There must be a reason why clocks are white with black numbers.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He won't be himself much longer and something bad is going to happen – he knows it.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He knows it.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

He knows.

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock… _

_tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…tick…tock…_

_tick_

_tock_

_Poor Tibenoch!_

_**A very merry Christmas, fellow HinaBN fans! Have some Ples character study.**_


End file.
